Well, I have lost you
by C. Clerk
Summary: Proof of why House and romance don't mix. Plot and character based. A couple of patient OCs, but no ships to speak of.
1. House plays Kirby

_Well, I have lost you; and I lost you fairly; _

_In my own way, and with my full consent. _

_Say what you will, kings in a tumbrel rarely _

_Went to their deaths more proud than this one went. _

_-_ Edna St. Vincent Millay

------

House sat in his office, lick-haired and yawning.

Unfinished piles of paperwork lay on both corners of his desk, and a thick file was opened before him, an exhausted pen resting in the middle of it. He ignored both these tedious things, as he was clearing out his drawers. Well – less clearing them out than handling through them, looking for some cool old game he had abandoned.

He found some fake dog shit in a can; didn't know what he was going to do with that. Put it in Cuddy's spare hankies, perhaps. He found travel Monopoly. Funny it was 'mono', when it needed more than one player. No wonder he had abandoned it. He found an old Kirby Game Boy cartridge that he thought he had stolen from a kid patient on clinic duty. In his mind, it was justified. Mother had sat there describing all his symptoms while the kid beeped and buzzed and immersed himself in pixels. House had spent half his time trying to get a straight answer from him.

Besides, it wasn't as though the kid was going to miss one game. He had brought enough cartridges and batteries in a little striped case to last about a year, and spent more time packing his crap away than House had diagnosing him.

"Hate when that happens," House said to himself as he shoved in the old game, soon busying himself with controlling a walking marshmellow. The music sounded like the tinnitus he sometimes got when he took too much Vicodin, but more tuneful, so it had a double familiarity to him.

He scrunched down in the chair, ignoring posture, positioning the game so light hit the screen.

Someone knocked on his office door, and was ignored, so they entered. It was Cameron in her neat little pants with the ironed creases. Professional pants, thought House. And of course she wears a matching waistcoat.

"Good morning, House," said Cameron, her tone between dryness and patience. She eyed the open file on his desk. "Have you looked at that?" No reply. "I'll leave you alone, but can you just give me a yes or no?"

"Skittish this morning, aren't you?" House noted, mostly to himself. Then he gave her a single glance; a flick of eyes up from the game, the beep of a pause – then down again. Kirby's little vacuum sound played several times in succession, in the silence. "No need to tiptoe around me. I won't bite if you stay, I'll just ignore you. Probably."

Cameron sighed, taking care not to open her mouth too widely, or he would notice. Behind her back, her hands stretched and balled.

"I hate this guy with the hammer," House said to the screen, giving the machine a little shake as he lost a life. "I can't even tell whether he's a duck or a badger. He might be a badger with a beak. At least he's not as bad as those little bomiknocker guys that you can't suck up."

"And the relevance of this is?" Cameron said in the tone she only used around House. "If you're going to talk me about your game, I'm going to go back to work."

"I looked at the file, by the way," House waited to say this to her back as she strode out, forcing her to turn clumsily on her heel to come back. "Well, sort of. Tee el, dee arr. Kirby calls"  
"I understood most of that," Cameron said, wanting very much – and it would be so easy – to reach out and flick that irritating machine from his hands, "but you lapsed into gibberish in the middle. I assume you've just taken your pills?"

"No, I didn't," House leaned down in a sort of gesture, then came up again, his thumbs working. "Tee el, dee arr. Too long, didn't read. Internet lingo. Keep up with the times."

"I thought acronyms were meant to be written," Cameron said, "that's the point of them; it's much easier to just say the whole thing. It's less recognisable if you…"

"Well, now I wish I'd just said it," said House, "I wish I'd said tongue twisters in succession rather than start you on about acronyms."

Cameron shut her mouth tight, and her brows contracted. Without another word, she came straight up to the desk and turned the case file around violently, to see where he was up to. She read as the game over music of Kirby played. Though the game was finished, House furrowed his face over the screen, determined not to acknowledge her sudden boldness. Like hell he'd even observe her trying to be brave. Not that she was. Triumph! Doctor Cameron approaches the desk of a crush that may or may not be. He chuckled. As though professionalism veiled the blatancy of cool things like crushes.

"You need to read a bit more," Cameron said. "I included her family's medical history for a reason. Look at it. It's full of physical and mental illness. Her father was autistic; her mother was a suicide. Grandparents were full of genetic diseases. I think it's relevant. Especially since her GP is trying to make her look unlucky." She paused, looked up. House was exchanging Kirby for Donkey Kong.

"So, what's her name again?" he said, switching on the Game Boy.

"House," Cameron's voice was sharp, but she reached out only tentatively toward the machine. He pulled it away. She touched his arm instead, gave it a weak tug. He raised one eyebrow and looked up at her. She pulled her hand away like a crack of lightning at the eyebrow, and cradled it between her other arm and breast. Looked at him as neutrally as her warmed face could manage.

House opened his mouth, but let the silence linger before he spoke. Cameron endured it; she deserved to be needled with discomfort for attempting that. Her nails dug into her arm.

"I don't work with names," he said. "I work with symptoms, etcetera. All that silly stuff that doesn't mean anything." He stood up, tossed the dead Game Boy aside, and adjusted his cane. "Will you muster the troops, or shall I?"

"I think I'll do it. The mustering," Cameron said, and waded from the stagnant office; the air in there was as thick as soup now.


	2. House diagnoses

House was writing on the whiteboard, mainly for the benefit of his colleagues. It was better than paperwork, at least. Clearer. It didn't need every detail on it; those could be kept to his head and expanded on in their rightful home. He liked the whiteboard.

As soon as he had finished, he lapsed into his own thoughts. Foreman and Chase sat on chairs behind him; the case file was slung over Foreman's lap. He was frowning and flipping pages. When House turned around, he observed him turning a page over and then flicking it back.

"There's nothing new since you looked at it a split-second ago," he commented. "Let's focus on the whiteboard for now, children."

"Where's Cameron?" asked Chase. "She doesn't like to miss a good brainstorm."

"Talking to the patient," said House. "She's taken an interest. Better to let her do her thing if she 'takes an interest'." He pulled the cap off and put it on the pen. His movements were quick and irritated; he very quickly varied between periods of absent thought and loud speed.

"Female, seventeen, in and out of hospitals since she was eleven," he said.

"Couple of really terrible diagnoses," Chase said, "when she first went to hospital. Is that why she's here?"

"Well, what do you expect?" House said. "Misdiagnoses, then she got worse. Symptoms popping up like daisies. Soon it was at a point where they couldn't even figure out what it was. That's how she got here."

"No, but seriously – these are absolutely terrible diagnoses," Foreman said, "you'd think she lived in a third world country. This is some of the worstwork I've seen in my life." He put the file down hard on the floor and looked up angry.

"She was in the papers," Chase tugged at a newspaper clipping sticking out of the manilla folder. "The press put some sort of 'unlucky' spin on it. Meningitis from influenza, that sort of thing."

"And of course, that's how her GP and the hospital made it seem," House tapped the cane on his knee, and leaned back in the chair. The ceiling wassoothingly white. "They want to make it 'unlucky' rather than 'incompetent and worthy of investigation'." He frowned. "There _is _an investigation underway, isn't there? Please tell me there is."

"Doesn't say anything about it here," said Chase.

"Never mind," House cut in. "Doesn't matter," he regretted mentioning it now. Shoddy work was only a problem if it was _his _shoddy work. "She's here now, being embraced by Cameron's sympathetic bosom."

Chase chuckled, his white teeth showing. His hair flipped back as he crossed his arms.

"I wouldn't mind a sympathetic bosom," House said, "is that your thought? Your professionalism, Chase."

"Hey – you said it," Chase shrugged, at ease, still grinning.

"Not much of a bosom, to be honest," House said, very low and under his breath, making a meaningless mark on the blackboard to further distract from the comment. Foreman sat up straighter, looking at him.

"What are you writing?" he said, his voice slightly raised, staring House down as he looked around; fully prepared to call House in on his comment.

"'Not much of a bosom,'" House said bluntly, and wrote it a moment later. "Questions done?"

"What, the patient?" Foreman tapped a pen to his palm; he was chasing House now, and would corner him soon enough; or so was his hope. House's antiprofessionalism could reach a certain point – and then it had to be chased.

House ignored him. He had met Foreman's challenge once, and couldn't really be bothered to do it again.

"Her parents are both dead, aren't they? Who's looking after her?" offered Chase in the silence.

"Doesn't matter," said House.

"Her brother," said Foreman, but only after House's comment. "Albino guy. He's hard to miss. About five years older than her."

"I'd say about five and a half years," House rubbed his finger across the board, his brow lined in irritation. "If Chase disagrees with the both of us, maybe we could submit it to Cuddy and put the case on hold until then."

"I get the point," Foreman said. "Fine, then – you ask the questions. We won't say a word until your say-so." He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, then put an ankle over his knee. House raised his eyebrows at Chase.

The door opened and Cameron came in, her hair pushed to one side over her shoulder; a piece of it was flapping the other way. She looked stiff and frustrated, and sat down without looking at anyone.

"Well, that was completely useless," she said, opening a notepad and throwing, rather than pulling, a pen from her pocket. "They had to _drag _her into the hospital. Not just drag her; she screamed like a child. I spent most of my time calming her down; once she was calm, she wouldn't say a thing. Apparently she didn't want to come."

House laughed.

"Apparently. Hmm. Difficult to say - was she kicking, or just sort of treading water?"

"No – her brother told me," Cameron glanced up to mark down what was on the board for her own noted copy.

"You couldn't tell by the dragging and the screaming?"

"Yes," said Cameron patiently, "but he explained it more fully than dragging and screaming does. She thinks the hospitals make her sick. She doesn't trust the doctors; same reason."

"As well she might, with these diagnoses," muttered Foreman. "Look what they pulled from these symptoms – the medication they prescribed – no wonder it got worse."

"She's paranoid, you mean?" asked Chase. "Thinks the doctors are out for her?"

"Or a hypochondriac? What exactly did he mean?" Foreman directed this to Cameron, but kept glancing toward the uncharacteristically silent House, who was gazing at the board.

"I don't know. Couldn't get much from him; he was almost as hysterical as she was," said Cameron, "so could me a mix of both. He kept getting up to get her things – check things – check the room. If anything, I'd say he's the paranoid one."

"Either way, I don't think it matters," Foreman said. "We have her symptoms. She's been diagnosed badly before, assumably by bad doctors – so we should be able to find something."

House turned around, provoked byForeman's confidence, and flipped the pen in his hand. Caught it. Then said,

"So, what's your first diagnosis? Look at these symptoms. She could have anything from Elephantitis to Timbuctoo disease. She claims to have experienced all-over pain, but it's never consistent – one day it's a dull ache, the next it's tingling, like nerve damage – then a written statement, 'my heart almost feels nauseated'," he read from the file. "Smells like the worst sort of clinic crap," House said all of this very fast, leaning his weight to one side, and then the other. "This is psychological. No, Foreman, don't get up – psychological, not neurological."

Foreman rolled his eyes and leaned on a fist.

"You're saying she's making it up?" Cameron said at this, raising her head. She clicked her pen when he didn't reply. Always subtle signs of irritation with a woman this professional. "I don't think she was making this up. Her brother's told me that her legs have been so weak that she'd had to be in a wheelchair. What seventeen-year-old girl would want to put herself in a wheelchair? Her temperature soared when I took it. She really is ill – I'm sure of it. Just because it comes and goes doesn't mean it isn't there."

"I didn't say it wasn't there," House said. "I said her problem was psychological. Her temperature soared when you took it, _because _you were taking it. It was going up since she came in. Her problem isn't an illness, it's severe nocebo. Placebo's evil twin. You know, the one that pops up at the end of the movie."

His three colleagues interjected, and House wished most fervently that he could work alone. Then he could be right without having to convince people who were stubbornly wrong.


End file.
